


The Theremin's Protege Affair, Part II: Capture the sub

by Taylor Dancinghands (tdancinghands)



Series: The Cold War Collar Affairs [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 03:52:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tdancinghands/pseuds/Taylor%20Dancinghands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Moscow, Napoleon must play the Top as never before, as Illya has lived the life of an obedient sub for weeks. Once transported to the abandoned and radiation contaminated city of <i>Ozyorsk</i> for the challenge, however, they must become agents and partners again. Never before has so much depended on Napoleon and Illya sticking, and fighting, together, so naturally their enemies will do anything to split them apart, including cheating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Giving credit where credit is due:The BDSM Universe was origionally created by [ Xanthe](http://www.xanthe.org/bdsm-universe/) and this author uses it with her acknowledgement.  
> Beta Reader: The highly precise and efficient [spikesgirl58](http://spikesgirl58.livejournal.com/)  
> 

Up to now, Napoleon had generally regarded his own reflection in any given mirror as a source of comfort and confidence. He knew himself to be blessed with naturally good looks and knew how to adorn himself well for any occasion. Well, almost any occasion. Never before had so much rested on the impression he gave and never before had he had to push the boundaries of what he considered good taste in order to make that impression.

He'd drawn the line at leather chaps, electing instead to wear his Air Force uniform trousers, which made for a fairly toppy ensemble along with his leather airman's jacket and cap. His broad leather belt held the usual assortment of Top's tools, including a strap, a short flogger, a leash and a pair of handcuffs. The leather vest he wore under the jacket held a brace of knives as well as a place to display his medals, which he very much hoped the panel of high-ranking Soviet officials he would be facing would recognize. Even if they didn't, there were quite a handful of them and even to an untrained eye, they should look fairly prestigious.

Would it be prestigious enough, however? That was the question that plagued Napoleon as he gazed at his reflection. He would be appearing before that panel in half an hour and the confidence he usually took from the image he projected was not forthcoming now.

"The Tops you'll be facing in that hearing will not be creatures of subtlety," Leon Theremin had cautioned him when they finally met a week or so after Illya had departed. "The better part of them will be artless brutes, with no respect for anyone or anything that does not match them in brutality."

Theremin had contacted UNCLE by means of one of the many clandestine drop boxes UNCLE maintained around Central Park, and which they'd told Clara Rockwell about. The message forwarded to Napoleon suggested a meeting at the Sub Station —Illya's old favorite haunt— on a particular afternoon and Napoleon naturally agreed..

Mistress Rockwell had been there as well, of course, and the tall, distinguished professor-looking fellow wearing a very nice, very new gold collar standing just behind her had to be Dr. Theremin. She showed remarkable trust in leaving her sub with Napoleon, but then she'd seen where Napoleon's heart really lay, so perhaps it was not such a stretch.

Over the Sub Station's excellent coffee, Leon Theremin had filled Napoleon in on a lot of the details of the challenge process and the personalities who would be involved, especially the man who wished to claim Illya for his own, Colonel Yevgeny Reznikov. Theremin had explained that Reznikov probably wouldn't actually fight in the challenge himself, but he would be pulling a lot of the strings, so Napoleon had memorized the man's photo on the theory that it was better to know your enemy, even if you might not be facing him directly.

He would almost certainly be among the dignitaries he faced today, though he might let his 'attack dogs' take up the overtly hostile position, while he would sit back and either say nothing, or speak up from time to time to take a moderate seeming position. This was a common tactic of Reznikov's, according to Theremin and it was one Napoleon was more than familiar with. He had his own tactics for such types.

And this, it came to Napoleon, was where he could draw his strength from. He knew things that Reznikov and his allies would not expect him to know. He was prepared in ways they would assume him to be unprepared. Theremin had done much of his preparation for him, hoping against hope that there would be some Top willing and able to extract Illya from the fate his departure had doomed him to.

Besides the inside information on the inner workings of the Soviet challenge system, Theremin had provided Napoleon with an astonishing amount of hard intelligence, such as annotated maps of the area where the challenge would take place and even satellite photos. He'd also put together a little hardware and had taken great risk in smuggling it out with him, but it was a truly genius bit of technology and might give them just the advantage they would need.

"Certainly your apparel will make a great difference in the impression you make," Theremin had told him. "But this will be a contest of wills as well. It is your manner that they will respond to, as much as your look. Your confidence must never waver and you must never show fear or uncertainty. They will eat you alive."

This, however, was not the first time Napoleon Solo had been given such a warning and he ought to know well by now how to avoid being eaten. Brutal he was not and never would be, but deadly he was and he knew how to show it. He was a highly trained soldier, a pilot and a skilled espionage agent who'd risen through the ranks at UNCLE with unprecedented speed. He was a man whose enemies feared him, if they were at all intelligent, and it was that man who these Russian stuffed shirts would be facing today.

Napoleon had been given lodgings, more or less across the street from the Ministry of State Security where his initial hearing would take place, so he used the five-minute walk to solidify his look. He smiled coldly to see various bureaucrats and other passers by giving him wide berth as he left one massive, grandiose building and entered another.

In the pretentiously decorated lobby of the State Security building Napoleon haughtily presented his appointment card to the surly but compliant receptionist and was shown down an echoing, marble floored corridor to a heavy wood paneled door, beyond which lay his hearing room. The functionary who'd guided him opened the door and Napoleon made his entrance.

The hearing room was not large and was made to seem smaller by the dark wood paneling the walls and comprising most of the heavy furnishings. The windowless space smelled of old wood, leather upholstery and stale sweat. Napoleon did not wait to be told where to sit, for he knew already, thanks to Leon Theremin. He made his way there directly and sat, sparing only a second or two to take in the room, the well-worn carpet and dark walls and the handful of spectators sitting behind him. Having made his reconnoiter, he turned his gaze to the panel of Tops sitting at the long table before him.

There were nine of them, all in some sort of military uniform and none younger than he was. Several were considerably older and only two were Dommes. He spotted Reznikov almost immediately, sitting at the far left end of the table and locked eyes with the man. _Make an enemy of me,_ Napoleon said with his steely gaze, _and you will live to regret it… but not for very long._

The hearing was scheduled to begin in a couple of minutes and so Napoleon waited in the near silence of occasionally creaking chairs and rustling papers, feeling the weight of history present in the room. The air was close, seeming to carry the memory of every regime which had used it, from the Romanovs to the Bolsheviks, to the Post-Stalinists of today. Napoleon felt like a new knife in a room cluttered with ugly, dusty, overstuffed antiques.

At last, the old Soviet fossil in the center of the table —probably some high level party functionary— stood and rapped a gavel, alerting all in the room to rise and opening the hearing. Napoleon stood as well, ramrod straight as befitting any American Air Force officer. Of course the entire procedure would take place in Russian and Napoleon had continued to polish up his language skills after Ilya had left, arranging a second meeting with Theremin just for Russian language practice. The Ministry lackey who'd met him at the airport had inquired, condescendingly, if he wanted a translator for the proceedings, but Napoleon had declined, much to the lackey's surprise.

"Here begins the custodial hearing for the submissive, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin," the old party boss began, gesturing everyone to sit, "pertaining to the challenge claim by the foreign Top, Napoleon Solo. Is Mr. Solo present before us now?"

"I stand before you," said Napoleon, who had not sat. "Napoleon Solo, Section One Number One of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement and former United States Air Force Captain. I present myself to you to make proprietary claim for the submissive, Agent Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin."

This had been the most complicated speech he'd had to learn and the most important, but he rattled it off now without batting an eye.

"And by what right do you make this claim?" the old party functionary asked him now.

"I make this claim by right of loyalty," Napoleon answered as he'd practiced. "As Agent Kuryakin has declared and demonstrated his loyalty to me and me alone, by both word and deed during the past two years during which time we worked together as partners for the U.N.C.L.E."

Theremin had suggested to him that using Illya's title as an UNCLE agent would irk the Russians and Napoleon now saw that this seemed to be true with at least some of the Tops at the high table. Reznikov was among those who frowned when Napoleon spoke Illya's name thusly. The old party boss running the hearing, interestingly, did not.

There followed some _pro forma_ questions about Napoleon's background and education, and about his service in the Korean War. Napoleon steered his answers away from the issue of fighting communism, focusing instead on protecting national sovereignty and patriotism, though some of the follow up questions tried to back him into a corner on this topic. He and Theremin had role played such obvious gambits, so Napoleon evaded those traps with ease and he was then also able to identify who among the nine were acting as Reznikov's attack dogs.

There were two which Napoleon spotted too easily, artlessly playing that role. One was likely near his own age, and possibly the youngest at the high table, featuring the typical broad cheekbones of his countrymen, and short cut blonde curls. The other was one of the two Dommes —an almost frighteningly gaunt faced women, thin lipped and severe, with grey streaked hair pulled back into a tightly controlled bun. It was she who started the main thrust of the attack when the floor was opened up for more general questions.

"Tell me, Mr. Solo," she began, refusing, as both these minions of Reznikov's had refused all along, to use any of his career titles. "By what right do you remove a valuable asset of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, who has been the beneficiary of much costly training and education, from the country which provided those benefits?"

"It is true that _Agent_ Kuryakin has benefitted considerably from the generosity of the Soviet State," Napoleon began agreeably. "But it is my understanding that he also served the State for many years and in several capacities. If it is your position that some debt remains, then I am more than agreeable to negotiating some sort of compensation."

"You are missing the point, Mr. Solo," answered the other 'attack dog' who Napoleon had privately nicknamed 'Curly'. The Domme would then have to go by 'Moe', just to stay with the theme. "The State grants such gifts to all its citizens in the hopes of finding one who is able to repay that debt to the extent that the submissive Illya is able to do. You cannot speak of 'compensation' in such a case if you are in fact speaking of mere financial considerations."

Two could play at the name game, Napoleon owned, for every time his partner was referred to as 'the submissive Illya' he himself bristled ferociously, but had to keep his reaction hidden.

"By no means do I speak of mere financial considerations," Napoleon answered promptly. "You are aware, I am sure, that Agent Kuryakin has also undergone extensive training with the U.N.C.L.E. and has been serving with that agency to the benefit of all nations, including this one. Thus he owes some debt not only to the nation of his birth, but also to this international agency. Furthermore, as the work he does serves all peace loving and law abiding nations, this should be considered a mitigating factor in any debt he may retain to his native land."

"Indeed, it may be that Kuryakin's service to the U. N. C. L. E. could be seen as a service to our nation, as well as many others," one of the other old fossils now contributed, "but this raises another question. As his Top, Mr. Solo, you would be entrusted with the safety and wellbeing of this valuable asset, and yet you speak of his serving in a capacity which clearly puts him in harm's way on a regular basis. How do you justify this?"

"I believe Agent Kuryakin's record speaks for itself in this regard," Napoleon answered, his gaze not on the questioner, but on Reznikov, pleased to see the man's mean smile grow stale and false. "It is enemy agents who are put in harm's way by Agent Kuryakin, far more often than the reverse."

"And yet these self-same records," rebutted 'Moe', "show numerous occasions where the submissive Illya was gravely wounded or nearly killed. I cannot take any confidence from these records that our asset's wellbeing or safety is secured in the least."

"Comrade Mistress," Napoleon addressed the woman, his tone just a touch shy of condescending. "Agent Kuryakin is a highly trained, highly skilled, highly effective operative. He is all but first among equals at UNCLE. If you are a sniper you may acquire a very finely tuned, high accuracy rifle. Such weapons are expensive, touchy and high maintenance and they do not do well in conditions of wet or dirt. Yet you, as a sniper, would be very foolish to leave it at home when you go to war, yes? Would it not be equally foolish to relegate Agent Kuryakin to the life of a pet merely to protect his beauty —as considerable as it is."

This actually got a bit of a laugh… more of a muffled chortle really, from the handful of observers behind him, but Napoleon's smile had ice in it.

"Your comparison is hardly apt," snapped 'Curley', who seemed to have finally caught that he was being condescended to. "Replacing a rifle may be expensive, but factories make thousands and they are all the same. The same cannot be said of this submissive, who is a demonstrably unique asset."

"I could not agree more," Napoleon said. "As a rifle hardly cares whether it spends its life in a gun case or goes to war. Agent Kuryakin has his own ideas about his path in life and, as his Top, I will protect his right to make those choices with my own life."

This seemed to have been absolutely the right thing to say, for the old party hack was nodding soberly and more than half of the rest of the panel seemed content with this approach. Reznikov, on the other hand, looked nearly livid.

"It is not a submissive's place to choose its own destiny!" he spoke up at last, glaring at Napoleon.

"And this is neither the time nor the place for this debate, Yevgeny," said the second Domme, a snowy-haired _babushka_ with steel in her gaze. "As you well know."

"Regardless," 'Curley' leapt to divert hostilities back to Napoleon. "We would see a true demonstration of the loyalty upon which you base your claim."

"By all means," Napoleon answered, speaking confidently but wary all the same.

"Very well," said the presiding Top. "Submissive Kuryakin, step forward and if you see in this room the one Top who holds your loyalty above all others, go to him or her."

Napoleon had not seen Illya and had no idea he was in the room at all, as he had apparently been kneeling behind the high table —behind Reznikov, in fact. He appeared now, rising and stepping around the table to survey the room. He was shirtless and shoeless, dressed only in a pair of leather pants so tight that it was clear to everyone that there was nothing between the leather and his skin. Napoleon fixed his eyes on his sub immediately and Illya's eyes met his only a split second later.

Moving with the same gymnast's poise Napoleon had seen him employ in their walk through the neighborhood, Illya made an unhurried beeline to Napoleon's side, then dropped to his knees with arresting grace before his Top. Napoleon felt his heart swell with pride and affection and a dozen other things as Illya gently laid his head against Napoleon's thigh and closed his eyes — home, at last.

Napoleon reached a hand down to stroke fingers through golden, silken strands of his sub's hair. "I'm here now," he murmured. "Sorry I took so long, but I'm here now and I'm not going back without you."

For a brief moment Napoleon felt himself and Illya alone in the room, or at least felt the others present to be entirely irrelevant. Illya's achingly beautiful yet simple act of submission seemed to momentarily lift them out of the mundane circumstances in which they found themselves and let them each bask in the other's long missed presence.

"A very lovely beginning, Mr. Solo," Reznikov's voice intruded and shattered their moment. "But we _will_ have to see more, of course. I think we should see the submissive service you, with his mouth."

There was a searing moment when all Napoleon could think of was the loaded pistol in the holster at his left ankle. His fingers stilled in Illya's hair and he felt Illya stiffen, almost imperceptibly. A long second passed before Napoleon lifted his head to gaze piercingly into Reznikov's eyes.

"You know," Napoleon began, his tone light but as frigid as the Alaska blizzard he'd once almost lost Illya in. "In my career at UNCLE I've probably prevented a dozen or more major Diplomatic Incidents, generally engineered by Thrush in their never-ending quest for world destabilization. It's an important part of my job, which I do take very seriously… and that's the only reason I haven't killed you, Comrade Colonel, for even making such a suggestion."

There was a buzzing murmur from the audience behind him, but none of the Tops before him said a word — although Reznikov's face had gone a curious shade of purple.

"You do not know me, comrades," Napoleon carried on, conversationally. "But I am, quite frankly, a very jealous Top. Illya Kuryakin's submission is for me, and me alone. I don't share —under _any_ circumstances."

Napoleon waited, and after sputtering furiously for a moment, Reznikov leaned towards the presiding Top. "I will not be spoken to in such a manner!" he stage-whispered. "His claim must be denied!"

"Sit down, Comrade Colonel," said another one of the Tops at the high table —a fortyish Top with a large dark birthmark on his forehead— not bothering to lower his voice in the least. "It was an excessive demand, for all that you've been able to bully other Tops in the past into giving you a free show. You're not going to bully this one, so simmer down and let him go and get killed in the challenge."

There was a tense moment, then Reznikov settled back in his chair again, frowning deeply. His two attack dogs sat stony-faced and silent in their places. "If no one else has any requests or questions?" the presiding Top prompted. There were none. "Then I propose that the claim be allowed and the challenge accepted. Do any say otherwise?" Some of the Tops shook their heads; Reznikov and his allies sat in sullen silence.

"Then the challenge will take place, at the [ _Ozyorsk_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ozyorsk,_Chelyabinsk_Oblast#Radioactive_contamination_and_the_1957_disaster) industrial campus, tomorrow morning," the Top announced. "Participants will meet at the helipad west of the Ministry no later than eight o'clock in the morning and failure to appear on time will be considered a forfeit. Have you any questions Mr. Solo?" Napoleon shook his head.

"Clearly you have made a study of the challenge in which you are now taking part," the Top continued, "but to assure that you are apprised of all of the rules and procedures I will place the sub Kuryakin in your custody for the rest of the afternoon so that you may be briefed on these issues in your native language. The sub must be returned to the Interior Ministry's submissive quarters by nine o'clock this evening and you are required to accompany him there. He is restricted from going out on his own. Is this clear?"

"Yes, sir, Comrade Master," Napoleon said promptly.

With that, the hearing was called to a close and the participants dismissed, though Reznikov lingered. His eye ever on Illya, he hovered near the door, angling to be the last one out. Napoleon steadfastly ignored the man, focusing on Illya instead. He prompted his sub to rise, kissing him tenderly on the mouth once he had, then unclipped the leash from his belt and fastened it to Illya's Soviet collar. It was slightly audacious, as he had not yet properly won Illya but, on the other hand, showed conscientious attention to his instructions not to let Illya go off on his own.

"Stay close," he instructed, _sotto voce_ , as they moved to leave the hearing room. Reznikov remained near the only exit, presumably in order to lay a hand where it didn't belong as Illya passed him. Napoleon put a stop to that, carefully placing himself between Reznikov and Illya and throwing an openly challenging glare in Reznikov's direction as they passed, mere inches apart.

Napoleon positioned Illya to walk half a step in front of him, on his right, so that no one could come up behind him. They moved in such close unison that Illya's body was practically touching his as they made their way down the long marbled corridor and through the pretentious lobby to stand on the Ministry's front steps.

There Napoleon paused to take his jacket off and place it on Illya, to shield him in part from public view and in part from the chill spring breeze. The open-necked, black silk shirt Napoleon wore under his leather vest kept him warm enough and Illya's brief but grateful glance warmed him further still. Head high but eyes on the ground in front of his feet, Illya walked on the end of Napoleon's leash like a war trophy, which he almost was. Napoleon was not unaware of the eyes that fell upon him and Illya as they walked the short distance to Napoleon's lodgings, in a building that was little more than a dormitory for travelers visiting Moscow on government business.

The fourth story room was just big enough to hold a single bed, a wardrobe, and a small writing desk with a chair. Showers and toilets were situated at the end of the hall, and they stopped in here before making their way to the room, having rinsed off at least a little of the close, oppressive air of the hearing room. Small the room might be, but the walls were thick and the door heavy. The moment it was closed, the jacket was on the floor and Illya was in Napoleon's arms, desperate, grateful and passionate.

Napoleon clutched his sub and onetime partner close, devouring the taste of his mouth as his own was devoured in turn. The kiss lingered, neither one eager to let it end, but it was Napoleon who drew back at last. He led Illya to sit on the bed then went to rummage through his suitcase to find Illya a shirt.

Finding what he was looking for, Napoleon tossed a black turtleneck in Illya's direction. "As much as I would dearly love to spend this time in purely pleasant pursuits," he said, "I have a feeling we need to spend it more strategically."

"You have indeed appraised the situation correctly," Illya said, pulling the on shirt over his head and mussing his hair. "We have much to discuss. Though if you were inclined to have some of this discussion over dinner I would be much obliged. The meals I have been served in the submissives commissary are hardly sufficient."

Napoleon grinned widely to hear this spark of his old, blunt-mannered partner. "Sounds like a plan," Napoleon said. "There's a cafeteria downstairs, unless you know any better place?"

Illya didn't, so that was where they went. When they emerged from the line, both of them had trays heaped with bowls of borscht, plates buried under piles of potatoes, cabbage and some sort of meatloaf, and a double portion of desserts. They chose a table in a sparsely-occupied portion of the spacious dining room and dug in.

Half of Napoleon's potatoes, a slice of his meatloaf, and several of his pastries found their way to Illya's plate, but that was more or less as Napoleon had intended. The first ten minutes or so of their dinner passed without a word as Illya wolfed down his meal. Napoleon observed him with affection. After a while Illya's inhalation of his food slowed down slightly and Napoleon hazarded a question.

"So, how private is our conversation going to be here in the cafeteria?" he asked, glancing around for possible bug locations.

"There are bugs everywhere, of course," Illya answered between bites. "But they're fairly pointless in here. They listen, but seldom if ever catch anything comprehensible."

"Hmm," said Napoleon, biting into a pastry that seemed little more than a delivery method for poppy seeds. "Maybe we can go out for a walk and a smoke after dinner."

"That will be fine," Illya said, wiping his mouth before taking a giant bite of one of his own pastries. "I wanted to compliment you on your Russian, by the way," he commented once his mouth was not quite so full. "I take it you were able to meet with the tutor I suggested?"

"That I did," Napoleon answered, knowing that Illya was referring to Theremin. "He was more helpful than I could have imagined. We may eventually owe our success to him."

"I'm glad to hear it," Illya said, finishing up one pastry and wrapping a couple more in his handkerchief to take with him. "I hope you remembered me to him."

"I did, and he asked me to convey to you how fondly he remembered you," Napoleon said with a knowing smile as he stood and extended his hand to Illya to bring him to his feet. "Ready for that smoke?"

Outside in the cool air of a spring evening in Moscow, Illya accepted the lit cigarette from Napoleon and inhaled its vapours appreciatively. Illya seldom smoked, but took pleasure in it on the rare occasions that he did. They walked through a grass and tree lined plaza and came to sit, eventually, on a stone bench next to a statue of bloodied but unbowed Soviet soldiers marking some hard won victory or other.

"There are a few things I'd like to show you back in the room," Napoleon said after a bit. "Gifts from your former mentor that may come in very useful indeed. I think I've jammed all the bugs in there, but we probably ought to be circumspect anyhow."

Illya nodded. "What do you know about _Ozyorsk_?" he asked.

"That I shouldn't stay there longer than a day or two if I ever plan to have kids," Napoleon enumerated. "And that there's only one source of drinking water in the whole place that's not so tainted with heavy metals that it lowers your IQ points by the minute. Theremin supplied me with maps and a couple of satellite photos, and annotated the maps with stuff like where that source of drinking water is."

"Theremin also left a few documents for me, hidden in his lab in places where he knew I would look. There is a map with notes, probably similar to yours, and some information pertaining to _Ozyorsk_." He shook his head in dismay. "The facts of the accident there, the unspeakable neglect that allowed it to happen—that is bad enough. The secrecy surrounding it and the way all Soviet citizens remain in ignorance, even today, is sickening. Dozens of towns and villages and thousands of people were evacuated and never told why, and thousands more were not evacuated, and will never know the dangers they and their children face…" He sighed and extinguished his cigarette. "At any rate, far be it from my government to let a whole contaminated industrial site to go to waste, The idea is to motivate the challenge participants to resolve their business as quickly as possible."

"I don't have any objections to wrapping this up as quickly as possible," Napoleon observed, finishing off his own cigarette.

"Nor I," agreed Illya. "As for tomorrow's procedure, you know that, as the challenged party, Reznikov's team will have the choice of whether they or you will have first pick of drop off sites. I will be dropped off first, of course, at the guard station in the city center. Then, whoever goes next will have first choice of where to establish their base camp, though the other team will know where. Whoever is dropped off last will have the advantage that the other party will not know precisely where they are based."

"Will Reznikov's people have maps, or know where the good water is?" Napoleon asked.

"Probably not," Illya replied. "The very existence of _Ozyorsk_ was a secret even _before_ it became the site of the Soviet Union's most dangerous and embarrassing nuclear accident. I don't know how Leon got hold of those maps and photos, but they will put us at a considerable advantage. _Ozyorsk_ is meant to be _Terra Incognita_ for both sides."

"And that's not the only advantage we'll have, thanks to your talented mentor," Napoleon said. "He built a set of miniature tracking beacons and a tracker for them. It's about the size of a pack of cigarettes and is currently disguised as a working transistor radio so that I could get it into the country. When I flip the circuit board around it will follow six separate tracking signals. The beacons themselves are about the size of a lentil and covered with tiny barbs that stick to anything. He must have spent years working on it and he took a huge risk hiding it and smuggling it out."

"He did," Illya replied, "but he was highly motivated and he knew that the Soviets didn't dare punish him too severely if he was caught. He would simply stop working for them by claiming to be too traumatized. As long as he continued to turn out useful devices from time to time, he was more or less safe."

"The veritable goose that laid the golden egg,"

"Precisely,"

They stood then and began to make their way back to Napoleon's room. As they walked they fleshed out their plan of action for the morrow, discussing various strategies they might employ and taking note of their vulnerabilities. Once back in his room, Napoleon showed the miniature tracking set to Illya, who examined it with fascination, noting in particular how the barbed, burr-like beacons even clung to human skin.

"And how were these to be… deployed?" Illya asked, carefully vague. In answer Napoleon showed him the 'blow-gun' Theremin had supplied, along with the trackers.

"I did a little practice with it, and I can get them to stick to clothing or hair at around ten to twelve yards," he said.

"You still have to see your intended target, however," Illya murmured thoughtfully. "I believe I have an alternative idea for planting them. Can you slip the beacons to me unseen before we board the helicopter tomorrow morning?"

Napoleon allowed that he could, then took note of the time. Illya would be required back in his own quarters soon. Napoleon tabled the strategic planning for the moment, standing to gather his sub —and partner— in his arms.

"You've been so good," he murmured into Illya's ear between kisses. "You've made me so proud, and you're going to make me prouder still over the next couple of days."

"I will," Illya promised.

"When this is over… you and I are going to spend a week, just to reward ourselves for all this," Napoleon promised in turn.

Illya smiled against his neck, then lifted his head to softly bite Napoleon's ear. "We'd better," he murmured.

Eventually they had disentangled themselves and departed the relative privacy of Napoleon's room, to hail a cab. The ride was spent in silence. They sat together in the back seat, hands clasped with fingers interlacing, as if feeding the strength of their bond, as sub and Top. They both got out when the taxi stopped in front of the security turnstile at the entrance of the Ministry of the Interior's Unattached Submissive Housing center. The cab driver only barely acknowledged Napoleon's request that he wait there for five minutes.

"The last thing Theremin told me," Napoleon said, still holding tight to Illya's hand "and what he insisted was the most important thing, was that we should not allow ourselves to become separated. If they catch me on my own, then my life isn't worth a plugged nickel, and if they catch you…"

"If I am captured in this venture, then your life will also be considerably at risk. Furthermore, having had a taste of what lies in store for me, frankly…" and Illya gave a resigned sigh. "Frankly, I'd rather be dead."

Napoleon felt a chill down his spine at Illya's admission but could not object—not when he felt much the same. "So we stick together," Napoleon said, pulling Illya close once more. "And we remember that we're better than they are. The two of us are better than four of them or even six of them. We're UNCLE's finest and they have no idea what they're up against."

"No, they do not," Illya agreed, and the blue fire in his eyes warmed Napoleon's heart like nothing else in the world could. They kissed once more, briefly but passionately, and then parted. Once he'd seen Illya disappear through the turnstiles, Napoleon turned back to the taxi, ordering the driver in curt Russian to return to his lodgings. His thoughts lingered on the sweetness of Illya's mouth on his own during the short return trip. When he thought of lay in store for them, however, it was the light in his partner's eyes that lifted his heart.

It was not his submissive that he would need in the days to come, but his partner—the man who fought by his side with unparalleled skill and ferocity. He had seen a tell-tale glimpse of that man just now and knew that this was who would meet him at the helicopter tomorrow morning. Napoleon had missed that partner much more than he'd missed the submissive he'd taken down with such skill nearly three weeks ago.

Thus it was UNCLE's Chief Enforcement Agent who exited the taxi in front of the Foreigners' Housing building and he saw the coming day with anticipation, of a reunion with his partner and for a good fight. This was also, after all, a good portion of what made Napoleon Solo tick and he felt not even the tiniest twinge of trepidation.

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	2. Chapter 2

Illya Kuryakin knew better than to believe in magic, but there did seem to be an almost magical aspect to how the very sight of his partner and Top, had woken him from the deep submission he'd held himself in for the last two and a half weeks. As a survival technique, it had been brilliant. Reznikov and his various functionaries had done their utmost to make Illya's life miserable—given that they were not permitted to physically punish or torment him unless he actually misbehaved in some way.

In the profoundly submissive state of mind Napoleon had helped him descend to, Illya doubted that it would be possible for him to misbehave. He didn't think he'd ever been so obedient in all his life and this, perversely, had driven Reznikov positively crazy. The moment Illya had laid eyes on Napoleon, however, he'd felt something begin to awaken in him and something of his natural persona reassert itself.

He'd had to be careful about it, for Illya understood full well how submissive he must appear when he first greeted Napoleon at the hearing. There, the submissive Illya had guided him but later, when he and Napoleon had been alone, he'd felt his true nature, prickly and cynical but also fierce and cunning, begin to reemerge. These were qualities vital to UNCLE Agent Illya Kuryakin and vital to their survival and success on the challenge to come. Napoleon had known just what to say and do to remind Illya of that self, and Illya loved him for it.

It was Illya the UNCLE agent who presently stood on the helipad in the very center of _Ozyorsk_ , watching the helicopter carrying his partner plus no less than six of Reznikov's flunkies, ascend into the sky, heading… west, he thought, though he would have to confirm that shortly when he got his bearings. Rising above him was the sealed glass watchtower where less fortunate Soviet soldiers were sent to keep an eye on the abandoned city and before him metal stairs lead down to a security turnstile letting out into the empty streets.

It was _as_ an UNCLE agent that Napoleon had parted company with him moments ago, with a hearty clap on the shoulder and a "See you shortly, partner." That was not how the flight had begun, as Illya had had to play the sub and Napoleon the Top, in order to carry out Illya's plan to deploy the wonderfully clever tracking beacons that Theremin had made for them. Illya had known that their opponents would try to rile Napoleon by behaving inappropriately with Illya while they were all crowded into the helicopter, and they had, but Illya had used their sly, and not-so-sly, attempts to feel him up as cover to plant the beacons and he had gotten all but one of them.

He had not known, until arriving at the departure point this morning, exactly how many opponents they would be facing. They'd guessed at a maximum of six, and six was what they now faced. Six was also the number of trackers they had, but Napoleon had insisted on putting one on Illya, which he couldn't really disagree with. Now, however, one of their enemies would move freely, without a beacon to give his position away.

Of course, Napoleon had appeared to respond with jealousy and anger when he saw the others 'handling' Illya and Illya had calmed him, submissively accepting. It was what their opponents would expect and, as before, it was no act. It had been a feat of some psychological gymnastics for him to put away the meek and subservient submissive and become the self-sufficient UNCLE agent once again, but Napoleon's farewell had prompted the older, more familiar behavior patterns between them and the Illya who had debarked the helicopter was altogether different from the Illya who had boarded.

Thus, Agent Kuryakin took a brief assessment of his situation before departing the guard post. He had, as per the rules of the challenge, not been informed as to who would be dropped off first after him. Normally that would leave him roaming the empty streets of _Ozyorsk_ without any idea of where to find his Top, but Illya had carefully memorized the map and the location of Napoleon's chosen drop-off point. Now he had to orient himself and make the streets and buildings before him match the map in his head. He also had to find a secure spot, out of the eyes of the watchtower, to put on the tennis shoes that Napoleon had slipped him this morning.

He'd boarded the helicopter barefoot, as befitting a sub, wearing a pair of very tight jeans and the turtleneck Napoleon had given him the night before. He'd not even been allowed a coat, but had still managed to strap the shoes to his shins, under his jeans, and thankfully no one had spotted them while trying to get a hand down his very tight pants during the ninety minute helicopter ride. He now made his way, barefoot, across the helipad and down the metal stairs, signalling the guards above him that he was heading out.

The turnstile gave way at his push, disgorging him onto the empty street and Illya picked his way across the cracked pavement to the tallest nearby building. He quickly found a convenient stairwell and, once out of view of the guard tower, sat down to don his footwear. Having gone without shoes for the better part of three weeks, his feet had hardened a bit, which he'd appreciated while crossing the wide plaza in front of the guard tower, but now wearing shoes felt strange and uncomfortable and of course they were new, so they chafed in a few places.

Still, it was a big improvement and he appreciated the protection as he mounted the stairs, traversing landings strewn with broken glass and other debris. He climbed the eight stories to the top floor, then forced his way onto the roof. It was a cloudy day and a chill wind blew across the empty city, cutting through Illya's sweater as if it weren't there, but this was easy to ignore as he scanned the horizon for certain landmarks he'd memorized.

There, at last, he spotted the control tower for the now shuttered airport, some five miles distant and, according to the maps, nearly due west. Confirming this assessment, he peered to the south until he made out a handful of radio masts and knew he had his bearings accurately. It was as he was returning to the hatch leading back down inside that Illya first heard, then saw, the helicopter returning to the guard tower. This was not as it should be, Illya thought, unless they were having some mechanical problem, or needed to refuel, but Illya had seen no indication of either of those things when he'd been on board.

Ducking down behind the parapet, Illya waited and watched unseen as the chopper descended to the guard station's helipad once more and disgorged another passenger before lifting off again. Illya wished very much for the spyglass Napoleon had packed with him, so that he could tell whether this was one of the of the flunkies he'd tagged with a beacon or not. That one of the flunkies would be ferried back to the guard tower to track Illya and catch him before he had a chance to find his Top was a cheat that he and Napoleon had not considered, in any case.

Of course, this man would be expecting a shoeless sub, picking his way gingerly across dangerous and rubble strewn streets, so Illya's best strategy now was speed. He needed to put as much distance as possible between him and his pursuer also because, if he was carrying a beacon, Napoleon would not know which of them was the partner he wanted to find and which the enemy he didn't. Lingering long enough to see which way Reznikov's man was heading first, Illya then headed down the stairs as expediently and silently as possible.

He'd already chosen his route and took it quickly now, jogging along at a moderate pace so as not to tire himself. He kept to the sidewalks rather than running down the middle of the street where he might have made better speed. The sidewalks held more navigation hazards of fallen chunks of concrete and broken glass from the buildings above, but also offered better cover in case he _was_ being followed. He paused from time to time, listening and looking for any signs of his pursuer, but caught no trace. Either he had no idea where Illya was and had lost him completely or he was keeping out of sight.

Illya had covered over seven city blocks —a little over halfway to their planned rendezvous point— when he met his first real obstacle. The hastily built and ten years neglected offices, factories and apartment towers of _Ozyorsk_ were all showing the effects of the ten previous hard winter storms and winds, but were mostly still standing. A few, however, were not and one of these had fallen quite spectacularly, taking out at least one of its taller neighbors which had collapsed into the street, blocking it completely with a mountain of rubble.

Stepping into a hidden alcove, Illya paused to strategize. Climbing over the forty foot high, unstable mountain of debris seemed unwise to say the least, though it would probably be the fastest way across, barring mishaps. The other options were skirting the pile of rubble to the left or right, though the right-hand route could be immediately discarded, as that would involve traversing yet more fallen buildings. The building on the left side of the street was heavily damaged on one corner, from where the top floors of the fallen building had collided with it, and the debris from that building had joined the pile from the other, blocking the street completely. Going around that building, Illya recalled from the map he'd memorized, would take him at least four blocks out of his way… but would he be able to go _through?_

The risks were that the building was obviously badly damaged and unstable and that attempting to make his way through the building could cost him as much time as going around. Among the notes Theremin had left for Illya, he had mentioned that some of the buildings would be completely locked up, others left open for whatever vandals or animals, or hunted subs, might happen by. If this building was among the former, then Illya might be better off going around.

Illya allowed as how he was a fair hand at picking locks, however, and the only trouble he'd have with breaking windows would be if the noise alerted his pursuer to his location. In the end Illya decided that he'd rather not make the long detour with an enemy on his tail, then spent a minute or two scanning the edge of the rubble pile for a bit of wire he could use as a lock pick. This attained, he turned back to the seven story, concrete-slab built, featureless box of a building on his left, looking for a possible entrance point.

He had to track back a half a block —circling the building to his left— before he found what he was looking for. Someone or something had already broken one of the glass panes on the double door which seemed to lead into a cafeteria or some such. Stepping carefully so as not to leave obvious tracks in the broken glass, Illya made his way inside, glancing back for any sign of a tail, then forward to look for an exit on the other side of the room.

It was the kitchen which lay opposite him and so Illya cautiously entered, keeping his distance from the closed meat locker and the pantry full of unswollen cans of irradiated food. There was a door at the back which lead onto a narrow hallway, one end of which was blocked by rubble. The other way looked clear, however, and so Illya went that way, heading down the corridor a dozen yards or so before trying any of the doors on his right. They were all locked.

They appeared to be dead-bolted, Illya observed when he stopped to try and pick one, and furthermore the mechanism was slightly rusted —just enough to prevent his extemporaneous lock-pick from moving it. Illya stood with a sigh and considered his options once again. This hallway appeared to run the length of the building, taking him away from where he wanted to go. He wanted to go to the right, but nothing seemed to lead that way. There were other dimensions to consider, however.

Another few meters down the hall Illya came to the stairwell he knew he'd eventually find. Disappointingly, the exterior doors he found there lead to the left (the side of the building he'd just come from) but the stairs did lead up, where other opportunities might take him in the direction he wanted. The doors to the first floor stairwell were locked, however, and rusted like the other lock Illya had tried. He continued up, finding all the doors locked and unpickable until he reached the fourth floor.

The fourth floor was an open area, divided into workstations as a large secretarial pool might be. There, at least, were windows on the side of the building he wanted to exit from and he went to one to reconnoiter. Illya could see that the way was clear here, the streets he wanted to get to visible from this vantage point, but four stories was a bit too much to jump. He _could_ create a rope from all telephone and electrical cords in the room and climb down, but he preferred a less elaborate approach. Illya looked out the window again, examining the outside of the building this time.

At last he saw what he was looking for: a fire escape! It was only a few yards to his right and even took him closer to where he wanted to go. Illya trotted down to the window nearest and peered out. There was the fire escape directly below, looking only a little dangerously rusted. He would definitely test it before setting his full weight on it. He would also have to weigh the consequences of making a loud noise —as the window was completely frozen shut and would have to be broken— and then appearing in a vulnerably open position.

Firearms were not allowed in this contest, but there was a man hunting him out there somewhere. While he would not be seeking to kill Illya, he might still have something like a blowgun with sleep darts. Face pressed close to the window, Illya made a closer examination of the immediate area, especially the debris pile which was not so far from the fire escape on his right. In the end, Illya was far from satisfied with how well he could see through the warped glass, but he had not seen any movement outside.

He had his choice of which heavy office chair to use to shatter the window, and chose a more wieldy one, without wheels. It worked excellently, both as a battering ram and a tool to knock the remaining jagged pieces of glass from the window frame. Illya paused then, to listen to the tinkle of falling glass striking level after level of the iron fire escape and to wait for any reaction from the street outside.

It was the sound of shifting masonry that gave his pursuer away, for he'd evidently chosen the most direct route and had just now attained the crest of the rubble pile. Naturally the sound of Illya's broken window had caught his attention and Illya could see him turn his way, but not see him —the broken window being at an oblique angle to where he stood. There was another bit of movement from the street below, however, which Illya only caught in his peripheral vision. The blonde headed man on top of the rubble saw him too, turning away from Illya and towards this new player. Illya sighed with dismay. It was Napoleon, of course.

His partner was wearing alpine camo: pale grey with darker grey and green splotches to break up his profile. The camouflage effect was completely lost when he stepped out onto the open street, however, and he also appeared to be looking for the origin of the sound of breaking glass, just as Illya's pursuer had. Uttering an abrupt Russian curse, Illya made a quick decision and stepped out onto the fire escape, hearing it creak a bit under his feet. That noise, however, was not enough to draw either Napoleon's or their opponent's attention so stepped up the game, placing two fingers in his mouth to whistle piercingly.

The sound echoed almost shockingly in the silence of the deserted city and in a second the heads of both his pursuer and his rescuer had turned Illya's way. Having caught Napoleon's attention at last, Illya gestured wildly at the man on the rubble pile, who was even now drawing his arm back to throw what was probably a knife. At that altitude and distance he could almost certainly deliver a lethal blow. Napoleon reacted instantly, however, ducking to the side and immediately making for the cover of a nearby building. Now it was Illya who was exposed, though his would-be captor had far fewer options with him than with Napoleon. Even if he hit Illya with a sleep dart Napoleon was closer and would reach him much sooner.

Given this certainty, Illya now risked a dash down the creaking and groaning fire escape, glancing across to the rubble pile only briefly to see his pursuer facing him, aiming something that might indeed be a blow gun. Illya increased his speed, taking the stairs four at a time, though it made the whole structure shudder fearfully. Upon reaching the last flight, Illya simply vaulted the railing, hitting the ground hard and streaking with all speed towards the shadowed vestibule across the street where he'd thought he'd seen movement.

A pair of strong arms caught him as he hurtled into the dark, but he knew whose arms they were upon the first instant of contact and Illya relaxed, even before he heard the familiar voice saying, "Easy there, speedy. I gotcha."

"Napoleon," he said between panting breaths. "Did they teach you to stand out in the middle of the street like that in survival school?"

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	3. Chapter 3

They did not linger in the vicinity of the rubble-obstructed street for long. Their pursuer had gambled by climbing over the unstable debris pile, and now had to pay in the lost time it would take him to climb down. Napoleon and Illya would be long gone by the time he reached the street again. Illya now followed Napoleon's lead, skulking down narrow side streets and skirting open plazas until they came to a dingy alley lined on one side with a row of garages.

On the other side was the windowless back of a large building, rising up at least ten stories. The garages on the left were all one story structures but backed up to another larger building, probably, Illya suspected, a block of flats whose residents, if they had the money or influence, might also claim one of these garages.

Napoleon paused at the head of the alley and counted down five closed garage doors, leading Illya to the fifth. Here Illya noticed a little pile of powdered rust on the ground to the left and right of the rolling door, where the runner tracks had evidently been put into use for the first time in over ten years. With a concerted effort Napoleon pulled the door open, just enough for he and Illya to duck inside, then he let it roll closed again.

A cracked skylight above allowed enough light into the space that they weren't in the pitch dark when the door closed, and revealed that the car parked here was not the usual compact Lada or Trabant that the average Soviet citizen might aspire to, but a large sedan almost certainly awarded to some party official or citizen of high standing.

"Welcome to the best accommodation available for miles," Napoleon announced, producing a real lock-pick with which he promptly opened the boot of the car. Inside lay Napoleon's pack and other supplies. He rooted around in it for a moment or two before he turned back to Illya, offering what Illya recognized as US military 'C-rations'.

"Care for lunch?" Napoleon asked, four of the foil wrapped food bars in his outstretched hand.

"Certainly, but what are you having?" Illya replied, eyeing the foodstuffs skeptically, but eventually choosing two.

"Ha, ha," said Napoleon, snatching back the remaining two. Illya's two bars read, 'cereal bar' and 'cheese bar' respectively, but he knew better than to expect them to do anything more than provide the bare minimum calories for survival. As he chewed, Illya assessed Napoleon's choice of base camp. Certainly the place was well hidden, and the sleeping arrangements on the sedan's bench seats would be relatively comfortable, secluded and probably fairly warm as well as dry.

The garage was cleverly hidden, being one among many essentially identical units and had the strategic advantage of only being approachable from one direction. It had the strategic disadvantage of only being escapable from one direction as well, however.

"Cozy," Illya remarked as he finished his cereal bar, carefully depositing the wrapper in the open boot so as not to leave any clues of their presence. "What are your plans on tactical retreat from here?"

Napoleon's mouth was full, but he pointed upwards toward the skylight in answer. It was directly over the car, so that climbing out would be simple enough, once the glass was broken. It made escaping in secret problematic, but once they were on the roof tops they'd probably have no trouble getting away from any pursuers on the street.

Napoleon swallowed down the last of his rations and washed them down with water from the canteen which had also lain hidden in the car's boot. When he'd finished, he handed it over to Illya.

"So, how is it that the curly-haired guy was the one you didn't tag?" Napoleon asked as Illya drank.

"He sat in the back and mostly kept his hands to himself," Illya answered when he'd finished. Sloshing the canteen, he figured it was still half full, but also knew how quickly that water could disappear between two men. "Was there some reason you wanted him tagged in particular?"

"Oh, he was one of Reznikov's two mouthpieces on the hearing board," Napoleon answered. "A real sonovabitch, who I was sorry to see again. I've been referring to him as 'Curley'."

Illya smirked slightly, then shrugged. "Naturally, all these Tops have been hand-picked by Reznikov, and each of them knows that the one who succeeds in capturing me will rise considerably in his esteem and in the Party ranks. Playing them off against one another could be a fruitful strategy."

"Could be," Napoleon said thoughtfully. "Though I'm not sure how we can do that in the current situation. How did old 'Curley' get so close to you out there, anyhow?"

"They cheated, you will not be shocked to hear," Illya said, explaining how he'd seen the helicopter return to the guard station with its single passenger.

"Did you happen to notice which direction it came from?" Napoleon asked.

"From the north, I think," Illya said, searching his memory.

"And we're situated to the north-east of the guard station, right? That means that with the exception of Curley, the others are some distance still. We'd better seize our limited free time and go get our water supplies now."

Illya agreed and equipped with a collapsible five-gallon jerrican, folding bucket and fifty feet of rope from the car boot, they set out. As they made the four block journey, Illya evaluated the various choke points they passed through as potential booby trap spots. Mainly he was thinking about traps that would nuisance and hinder rather than kill, though he had no compunction about the latter.

They found the old well more or less where Theremin had told them it would be, in the center of a courtyard surrounded by crumbling Nineteenth Century buildings, sadly beautiful in comparison to their Soviet _brutalist_ neighbors. A small brick wellhouse had had once covered it, but it was now little more than a pile of broken masonry which Illya and Napoleon had to excavate somewhat in order to find the well opening. When they did, however, and dropped a rock down into the impenetrable darkness, they heard a comforting splash, so that much was true anyhow. Next they would have to determine if it was potable.

UNCLE had provided Napoleon with a state-of-the-art miniature Geiger-counter, which ticked all the time whenever they turned it on, no matter where they were. Napoleon held the flashlight-sized device to the well opening and heard nothing particularly different, but the fact that it didn't go crazy with ticks told them that this was good as it was going to get. Next they deployed the folding bucket, dipped out a measure of water, and poured a few tablespoons into testing kit UNCLE had also supplied.

They watched, Napoleon holding the tester up to the light as each of the little compartments turned various colors. "Looks good," he said after the allotted five minutes. "Ammonia, no detectable amounts; lime, two percent; arsenic, no detectable amounts; heavy metals… point eight percent; overall PH, eight point seven. Not recommended for long term use, but I believe it will do for our purposes."

Illya nodded in relief, as this meant much less pressure for them to move quickly. The challenge would be won by whoever returned to the guard station with Illya in their uncontested custody. The cheat they'd been told to expect by Theremin was that, if Napoleon did take Illya directly to the guard station and any of the opposing team remained alive or free, the guards would simply refuse Napoleon and Illya admittance until one or more of their opponents showed up to fight Napoleon on the spot.

They would need time then, to eliminate or immobilize all six of Reznikov's team so that when Napoleon and Illya appeared at the guard station the guards could wait all they wanted, but no one would come to contest Napoleon's claim. Now that they had water, time was definitely on their side. They spent a nervous twenty minutes dipping water up from the well and pouring it, bucket by bucket, into their four gallon container, but luckily there was no sign of anyone approaching throughout the operation.

They found a length of pipe to pass through the handle of the filled jerrican, allowing them to carry it more easily, but one of them also had to keep an eye on the tracker while the other kept an eye on their surroundings. Since it was slow going anyhow, they decided to stop along the way and put together some of those booby traps that Illya had conceived of on the way out. Now anyone approaching them from the west would almost certainly make a great deal of noise when they entered that end of their alley.

Illya had another idea as they settled the heavy jerrican into the back seat. He'd spotted a large sheet of plywood not far from their camp which the two of them went to fetch once they had rested from their water carrying chore. Illya was not at all surprised at Napoleon's affirmative answer when he asked if he happened to have brought a glass cutter; it was a highly useful tool in their trade, after all. 

Once they'd brought the plywood back to the garage Illya went to work cutting a more-or-less square opening in the skylight, so that access to the roof could now be gotten without breaking the glass. The plywood could be laid over the opening in case of rain or cold, but now someone could keep a lookout from this vantage point and duck back down inside to avoid being seen or escape quietly to the rooftops via this opening. Napoleon approved heartily.

"A solid strategic improvement," he commented, looking up at Illya where he perched on the rafters below the skylight, his silhouette outlined by the twilit sky. "Ready for some dinner?"

Napoleon had to know perfectly well what a silly question that was. Illya merely snorted in reply and clambered down from the skylight. He joined Napoleon in the front seat where they shared more food bars and split a can of 'beef' stew which probably would have tasted a lot better heated. They washed down these delicacies with the water which Napoleon had treated with iodine tablets and flavored with Tang. Naturally, Illya could have easily put away twice as much, but the repast, such as it was, satisfied nonetheless.

Relaxing in the front seat of the darkened car, feeling the mood-enhancing effects of a full stomach, Illya realized that he had not had a moment to relax or reflect since their appearance at the hearing. The moment he'd longed for, over the many days of his tenure as a sub under Reznikov, had come and gone, and he had not yet had time for the reality of Napoleon's reappearance in his life to sink in. Now, sitting close to the man he knew as his partner, but also as his Top, Illya felt a certain tension within him release and he felt himself slump comfortably against Napoleon's shoulder.

This wasn't at all something he'd have done on a mission prior to this… but then Napoleon wouldn't have slipped his arm around Illya's shoulder and pulled him close as he did now, either. And just like that they were Top and sub again. Napoleon bent down to kiss the top of Illya's head and then reached out with his other arm to close Illya in his embrace. Illya felt a sigh escape him that was almost a sob and wrapped his own arms around Napoleon, embracing his Top in return with desperate strength.

"Sh, Shhh," Napoleon comforted. "I'm here now; I've got you. I'm sorry I took so long, but I'm here now and I'm never letting you go again."

Oh how Illya had needed to hear Napoleon's calming words, feel His Top's arms holding him close, to bask in his protection, even for a few minutes only. There was a part of Illya that had once cringed at such moments of neediness, but he'd learned over the past few weeks just how strong this 'needy' part of him could be. Agent Kuryakin had his own needs when coming down from a mission, after all. How could an afternoon spent beating up new recruits followed by a two day drunk be any less of a disgrace than seeking the refuge of his Top's embrace, really?

Instead of fighting it, Illya let himself ask for what he wanted, knowing that there was no shame in asking and that it would be granted without question. He lifted his face to be kissed and kissed he was, with the deepest affection. The hands which had been more than ready to deal out death to a table full of Party officials and Politburo members only yesterday now caressed his cheek with such tenderness it might have broken his heart… save that his heart was safe in his Top's protection.

"My Illyushka…" Napoleon murmured, kissing his way down Illya's neck, until he came to the collar. He paused then, stilled completely, and Illya felt his Top's sudden resolve change the very air in the enclosed space of the car. "Okay, you know what?" he said. "This has got to go, right now. You're mine and we're putting our lives on the line to prove it, so there's no need to go on hedging our bets." Then there was a knife in Napoleon's hand and although Illya felt not one iota of fear for his own safety, still his heart hammered in his chest as he felt the cool metal next to his skin, slipping under the collar that had lain there for the last twelve years.

The knife was very sharp and cut through the heavy leather with little effort. The sensation of Napoleon tugging it away was a shocking one, leaving Illya feeling bereft in an inexplicable way. Napoleon held the severed collar in his fist now and he made to open the car door and throw it away, but Illya stopped him, reaching out to take it from Napoleon's grasp.

The enameled red and gold symbol riveted to the leather glinted faintly in the dark and Illya found himself assailed by a storm of memories and feelings. "I once wanted nothing but to be a good citizen…" he began, hardly aware of the decision to speak. "A good Soviet. I believed, Napoleon, I truly did. I was happy to dedicate my life to the continuing revolution, to the principles of 'from each according his abilities, to each according to their needs'... But it was nothing but words, empty words and a cover for a government of thugs and bullies…Now I feel nothing but hatred when I see this… hatred for their lies and empty promises…" And suddenly Illya was crying, weeping helplessly. He wanted to hurt someone or to burn the collar and piss on the ashes, but all he could do was hurl it impotently into the back seat.

Then Napoleon's arms were around him again, holding him close, rocking him gently as the storm of his rage and grief shook him. Napoleon offered no words of comfort, for what comfort can there be for a man who has chosen exile for the remainder of his life from the land of his birth? Illya knew he had crossed his own Rubicon, that there was no going back for him now and that he would never want to go back. The way forward might indeed be painful, but the alternative was finally, truly unbearable and he would never regret his choice, even if he did regret how he had been forced to make it.

After a while the storm passed and Illya felt his emotions begin to settle once more, though he badly needed a handkerchief. He raised his head to ask for one and was surprised to see the faint glimmer of tears in his Top's eyes. His astonished blink asked his question for him.

"I hate that they lied to you too, Illyushka," Napoleon said softly. "And as cutting off any collar is painful for any sub, I'm furious that they made me hurt you in that way. I can't imagine how it must feel to have to choose between dignity and freedom and your own home, but your bravery… I've never known anyone so brave and it makes your submission to me the greatest gift… the greatest honor I've ever known in my life."

Illya blinked away fresh tears and took the handkerchief Napoleon wordlessly offered with gratitude. He blew his nose voluminously and then held the sodden cloth between thumb and forefinger until Napoleon gestured that it should be tossed into the back seat along with the discarded collar. It was not, perhaps, as viscerally satisfying as setting it on fire and pissing on it, but it pleased him nonetheless and he let a little meanish smile cross his features. 

The only source of light in the car at present was the faint greenish illumination from the tracker display, which Napoleon had been keeping half an eye on all this time. It was enough for Napoleon to see Illya's expression, however, and he grinned fiercely in response. "There's my partner," he said warmly and handed Illya the canteen to drink.

He swallowed down several mouthfuls for the overly sweet orange-flavored, irony liquid and felt its coolness clear his mind and body. It still made his heart race when he felt Napoleon lay a hand over his bare neck, but it was with exhilaration rather than trepidation. Freedom was a heady thing and Illya could feel it coursing through his veins now like a drug.

"Chocolate?" Napoleon offered once Illya had set the canteen down.

It was just a little disturbing how Napoleon knew so well what it was that he needed, but Illya had learned not to let these things interfere with such fundamentals as enjoying a piece of chocolate. He savored it, as only a person who has known real deprivation can, and felt its grounding effects further restore his equilibrium. Napoleon had his own piece of chocolate and he nibbled on it as slowly as Illya. Napoleon might not have known the sorts of privations Illya had in his youth, but Napoleon had known war, and understood well how a single piece of chocolate can be more precious than anything but life itself.

"Well, as much as I'd like to relive my memories of how much fun two people can have in the front seat of a car," said Napoleon once they'd both finished their small measures of Manna from Heaven. "We'd probably better set watches and get some sleep instead."

"Seeing as I'm going to be becoming a full-fledged American, you can take me to a drive-in movie when we get back and show me how it's done. In the mean time I'll take first watch and you can warm up the 'bed' for me."

"Fair enough," Napoleon agreed and opened the car door. Already the temperature outside had dropped while the two of them had been warming the interior of the car and Illya shivered at the touch of chill air. Napoleon gestured for him to wait in the car while he went around to the boot. When he returned he had the leather pilot's jacket and a scarf with him. Illya sighed with pleasure at how the fur lined garment warmed him immediately and he tucked the scarf into one of the many pockets to put on later when the night grew colder.

Illya noticed immediately that the pockets nearly all contained various supplies. Napoleon pointed out a few of them, including maps, chewing gum, gloves, and a double echelon of throwing knives in pockets in the lining, three on each side. From that Illya knew that Napoleon had planned all along for Illya to wear the jacket, for though his partner was an adequate marksman with throwing knives, Illya was the undisputed champion at UNCLE.

They shared one more brief embrace and kiss and then, with a promise to wake him in four hours, Illya bid Napoleon a good night and scampered agilely up onto the car and then through the rafters to sit watch from the skylight. He perched himself so that only his head and shoulders protruded above the roofline and in the dark he knew he would be all but invisible. He had the tracker with him, of course, but held it below the skylight opening so that not even a glimmer would be visible from outside.

The night was clear, with a tapestry of stars gleaming brightly in the dark sky above. A chill spring breeze blew across the rooftops, but Illya was warm and protected in Napoleon's leather jacket. Every now and then a stray breeze would slip into the open neck of the jacket and remind Illya of the absence of his collar and he would feel again the heady sense of freedom it brought.

Napoleon would tell him that he'd paid for that freedom himself, with endurance, patience and suffering, but the fact remained that it had been Napoleon's knife which had cut the collar off Illya's neck. It was Napoleon's jacket that took its place now, after a fashion, promising protection as a collar was meant to do. Part of Illya knew how long he had struggled to be his own man, and rejoiced that he was nearly there, but another part of him longed to have another collar —Napoleon's— around his neck to replace the one he'd removed.

Even when he reminded himself that Napoleon had clearly stated his disinterest in ever collaring another sub, the part of him that Napoleon had taken down so skillfully and who had wept so grievously in Napoleon's arms only moments ago, would always crave the security of a collar. This was something that Illya had not expected, as the collar which had been forced upon him had never given him any sense of security whatsoever. He would never have imagined that the day would ever come that he actually _wanted_ a collar, but he felt that desire now and the internal conflict was deeply unsettling. Illya was a man used to knowing what he wanted and what he didn't want, and he was used to these things being clear cut and unconflicted.

Illya had nothing to do but chew over these things as he kept a silent watch over the next few hours. Eventually he came to the conclusion that nothing could be settled until this current crisis was concluded and while he was not entirely content with this, he understood well that there was nothing to be done about it for now. For now he would do better to apply what he'd recently learned about staying in the moment, casting his eyes over the empty streets below and the starry sky above, with one eye always on the little tracker.

Standing watch through the long night hours was nothing new and Illya felt the peace of a familiar task and of knowing his purpose. For now he could be content.

*^*^*^*


	4. Chapter 4

Three hours or so had passed without interruption or disturbance when Illya finally spotted a blip on the tracker. The display was similar to that of a radar screen, showing periodic sweeps of the immediate area and as Illya watched, first one, then two bright points appeared at the limits of the scanner's range. He remained where he was, watching the streets in the direction the scanner indicated, but took a moment to find a small rock and drop it onto the roof of the car below. Napoleon was a light enough sleeper in stakeouts, and would certainly wake at this small noise.

By the time Napoleon had climbed up to stand beside him a few moments later, Illya had spotted the approaching targets. At Napoleon's murmured, "What've you got?" he was able to point out the pinprick gleam of a flashlight at the far end of the block. Napoleon shook his head in scorn. _Amatuers,_ passed unspoken between them.

"Where shall we meet them?" Illya murmured.

"There's a choke point where they'll pass the first garage," Napoleon suggested the very place Illya had been thinking of. "We can drop down on them from there."

Illya touched the first of his knives as he nodded. "Let me take a shot at one of them first?" he said, and Napoleon nodded in agreement.

Crouching low, they crept over the garage roofs till they came to the first, at the end of the alley from which their two would be assailants were approaching. The one holding the flashlight was too easy a target, and he dropped with a brief cry, Illya's knife in his throat. His partner hesitated between picking up the dropped flashlight and fleeing, foolishly crying, "Who's there?" before Napoleon fell upon him.

He'd come to the fight equipped with a cosh —a short baton with a weighted end on a spring— and set of brass knuckles, and though Reznikov's man had his knife out already, Napoleon had him laid out with a round-house to the jaw before he could do much more than menace with it. He finished the poor fellow off with a double blow from the cosh and the man collapsed unconscious onto the street.

"That was almost too easy," Napoleon said, dusting off his hands. Illya retrieved his knife from the dead man and cleaned it on his shirt before putting it back in its sheath.

"In a team of this number it's no particular surprise that at least two of them have turned out to be foolhardy idiots," Illya said, checking the scanner to be sure that no more foolhardy idiots were on their way. "We should probably clean this up."

Illya was of more than half a mind to slit the throat of the man Napoleon had knocked out, but Napoleon declared that they ought to at least start out with a modicum of civil restraint, so they tied him up and gagged him and locked him in the empty garage next to theirs so they'd hear if he made any noise. They dragged the other fellow's corpse in there with their prisoner, so as not to give their location away and Illya covered the bloodstained patch of pavement with a pile of leaves and rubbish.

By the time they'd finished with all this, it was Napoleon's turn on watch. They returned to their own garage by way of the roof again, as opening the garage door would be too noisy. Illya expected Napoleon to keep watch at the skylight as Illya had, but he covered the skylight with the piece of plywood and came down to the car with Illya. The door had been left standing open, as Napoleon hadn't wanted to make a sound by closing it. As a result, interior of the car was now disappointingly cold again.

"I figure the odds of any more company are pretty low by now," Napoleon said, following Illya into the front seat. "So I can keep watch from here and help you warm the 'bed' back up."

He was offering more than mere warmth, however, Illya gratefully realized. With both of them in the front seat Illya ended up lying with his head on Napoleon's lap. Napoleon covered him with one of the thin emergency blankets he'd brought with him and now sat upright, keeping watch on the tracker —two blips unmoving in close proximity. Napoleon rested his hand on Illya's shoulder and stroked his hair gently from time to time. It often took Illya hours to come down from a fight, but tonight, feeling utterly safe and comforted under his Top's watchful presence, Illya dropped off like a stone in mere minutes.

 _Two down, four to go,_ was the thought that Illya woke to, as he had apparently been strategizing in his sleep. One of their remaining four opponents was invisible, of course, but the odds were not bad at all. Illya still lay with his head on Napoleon's thighs, and could feel the warmth of his touch, his hand resting on Illya's uncollared neck. That was the recollection that brought Illya to full wakefulness, all of the previous day's momentous events tumbling into place in his memory in the wake of that one.

"Morning, Sunshine," Napoleon said quietly. "All quiet on the western front."

"As expected," Illya replied sleepily. "What's for breakfast?" As if he didn't know.

Napoleon livened up the meal of bland food bars and irony-tasting Tang with a complete inventory of the things he'd brought with him in his voluminous pack. Besides another set of brass knuckles, a folding baton, four more throwing knives, a dozen pairs of spare socks and two complete changes of clothes —one in each of their sizes— he'd managed to bring in an astonishing number of exploding cufflinks.

"I really expected them to confiscate most of them," Napoleon explained. "So I put a couple of pair in each of my shirts, tucked them into my coat lapels, stuck them into all the pockets of my clothes… and they didn't take a single one. Either the Soviets are slipping or someone wants us to win."

"Reznikov is an ambitious man, so naturally he has enemies," Illya said with a shrug. "Losing me, after all this effort, would embarrass him badly and it stands to reason that someone else would benefit from his embarrassment. Bribing a customs official to overlook most of the contents of your bags would have been cheap and largely free of consequences."

"Well, I'll take all the help I can get," Napoleon said, offering Illya half a dozen. Each cufflink contained a small charge —enough to blow a lock, maim a man's hand, or trigger something larger. Illya tucked the cufflinks into two of the pockets of Napoleon's Airman's jacket, plus the brass knuckles and a handful of food bars. Napoleon also took a stash of food bars, refilled the canteen and, in a move of prescient paranoia, folded up the emergency blanket and inserted it into a large flat pocket in the back of his camouflage jacket.

"Let's go hunting," Napoleon said once everything had been put back away in the car's boot. Illya nodded eagerly, sharing a predator's smile with his partner and receiving one in return. Together the two of them slipped stealthily out of the skylight, replacing the plywood cover as they left. They dropped silent as shadows onto the street and set forth, following their hunters' instincts in seeking those who foolishly thought they were the ones doing the hunting.

They struck out in a northwesterly direction, on the theory that since the helicopter Illya had seen had come from that direction, Reznikov's team base might lie somewhere along that path. Of course, the helicopter pilot might well have taken a detour or two on the way to dropping off Curley, but this was the only information they had to go on. Illya took his turn keeping an eye on the tracker for now and let Napoleon take point.

Given the size of the abandoned city and the small number of players hunting each other here, Illya was aware that their task was akin to finding a needle in a haystack. There were significant mitigating factors, however, the main one being that both parties theoretically wanted to find each other. Just as he and Napoleon were headed in the direction where they expected their opponents might be found, those opponents were probably also making a similar calculation. This brought the odds of an encounter up considerably.

There were other strategies to consider, however. In other circumstances, Illya reflected, they might well have split up, with one of them venturing out in search of trouble while the other waited at their base for trouble to find them. They also had the option of playing a waiting game of hunkering down and waiting for the enemy to get impatient and sloppy. The unique circumstances of the challenge took those options off the table, however. They'd already discussed the danger of splitting up and, though they hadn't discussed it, no one had to point out that spending any more time than necessary in the irradiated environs of _Ozyorsk_ was clearly unwise.

This was a hazard shared by both teams, but their opponents had the advantage of greater numbers, as well as no prohibition against splitting up. Even with the advantage of the tracking beacons, Napoleon and Illya faced the real disadvantage of only being able to be one place at a time while their enemy did not. Illya very much wanted to know if the two men they'd eliminated last night had stumbled upon their neighborhood by sheer accident or had been given some indicator of where to find them. Had Curley been able to track them, or had they employed some other cheat? Illya wished he knew.

As the day progressed, Illya found himself increasingly convinced that Reznikov's men were circumventing them, or leading them on a wild goose chase. The tracker showed them nothing, but its range was limited to a few hundred yards. By midday, when they stopped in an empty building lobby to eat some of their food bars and strategize, they'd covered two or three miles of empty city and seen nothing.

They both admitted to the temptation to go straight on to the guard station and claim victory, but they both knew, and confirmed as they spoke, that the guards would not let them in as long as some of the opposing team members remained alive. They would almost certainly have left a man somewhere in the vicinity of the guard station anyhow, making it the most obvious trap. Thus they would have to stay away until they had eliminated all of their opponents, but how could they do that if they never found them?

Illya could see that Napoleon shared his uneasiness. If they'd been sent to find and dismantle some Thrush satrap they'd know what to do; they'd have clues to show the way, suspects to question, couriers to tail. All they could do here was blindly stumble around the empty city, without even the possibility of covering more ground by splitting up.

"Let's circle back around towards home," Napoleon finally suggested when they'd finished their repast and washed it down with more Tang-flavored water from Napoleon's canteen. Napoleon's discontent showed as clearly as Illya felt his own. They were being played; Illya felt it in his gut and he suspected that Napoleon felt the same.

Entering the street again, with Napoleon taking his turn minding the tracker, they both felt even warier than before. Illya definitely preferred to go by hard facts and clues whenever possible and disdained those who claimed the superiority of 'gut feelings', but they had nothing else to rely upon at the moment and Illya's gut was telling him, by whatever means it had, that they were being followed. The tracker continued to show nothing, but when Illya glanced up at Napoleon's face, he saw that his partner too seemed uneasy.

They applied every ounce of skill and experience they had as they made their painstaking progress through the empty streets. Illya was choosing the route now and he did so with utmost caution, convinced that they were being followed by someone —probably Curley— without a beacon, who could easily remain invisible. Sooner or later he would make his appearance and strike and the moment he would choose was the moment their position made them sitting ducks.

Illya led them furtively from doorway to portico to stairwell, from one spot of cover to the next, his sense of danger growing with each passing moment. Eventually they came to a large, open intersection —a conjunction of three main roads and two smaller ones— which they would have to cross. Scanning the periphery for a safe way around, the expression 'fish in a barrel' kept presenting itself in Illya's mind. It was the many adjacent rooftops that held Illya's gaze as he led them forward to a corner, preparing to make a dash across the first street.

It was as he was just opening his mouth to tell Napoleon to run that he saw the small explosion of shattered facade in the wall just above and behind Napoleon's left shoulder, and half a second later it was Napoleon who shouted, "What the hell? Ow!"

"Run!" was all Illya had to say in response and Napoleon didn't hesitate… save to scoop up something in their path as they ran, much like Athena, stooping to grab up Eris' golden apple. It was as they stood panting in a sheltered doorway on the other side of the street that he opened his hand to reveal a silvery steel ball-bearing, around an inch in diameter.

"Are you all right?" Illya asked, seeing Napoleon lift and flex his left shoulder tentatively. Clearly, the damage would have been much more serious had the projectile hit him directly rather than on a ricochet and a direct hit to the head with such a weapon could well prove lethal.

"I think so," Napoleon answered, still gazing down at the ball-bearing. "But someone's got something they're not supposed to have. I'm pretty sure I remember reading that wrist rockets were among the prohibited projectile weapons for this challenge."

"Don't tell me you're actually surprised," Illya said, already looking for the best path for their next move. Reconstructing what he had seen from the ricochet, he had a good idea of where the 'shooter' had been and could now calculate where he might go next to have another shot at them. The man was definitely on the rooftops, more or less directly above them, which meant that any movement away from this doorway put them in his sights.

"No, no," Napoleon said with a sigh, flexing his shoulder again as he dropped the ball-bearing into one of his jacket pockets. "Just wishing I'd tried to cheat more myself."

"You made the best decisions you could, based on the information you had, and I'm sure those cufflinks are going to come in handy at some point. For now, however, I believe we should apply the fox's strategy and go to ground... there." Illya indicated a steeply descending stairwell a few yards to their left.

Napoleon's eyebrows suggested that he wanted to ask Illya if he was sure that was such a good idea, but he said nothing and let Illya lead the way. Illya had noticed that the basement door at the bottom of those stairs had a reinforced glass window, so he picked up a half a broken brick from the crumbling wall at the top of the stairs. When they reached the bottom he used it to bash a neat hole in the glass just above the door handle. It was a simple matter then to reach through, open the door and enter quickly, closing it behind them. Their pursuers might notice the broken glass eventually, but not until they came down from the rooftops and made a much closer inspection.

The basement they now entered was lit only from the stairwell window, and smelled of damp and a trace of coal smoke. They waited a moment for their eyes to adjust to the dark, then crossed the space cautiously to where Illya was sure he'd seen another door. This one was not locked, and led up an internal stairway to a featureless corridor. Here Illya took the tracker back from Napoleon, as Illya had an unerring sense of direction in the wilderness, but Napoleon never lost his bearings in buildings such as this.

Napoleon cast his gaze back down the stairs they'd just come up, then consulted a compass which he'd drawn from one of his pockets, regarded the corridor once more and chose the left hand path. Illya followed, wondering if their pursuer would stay on the rooftops or come down to street level to search for them, but figured that they were better off inside in any event. Napoleon seemed to be of the same mind, as they passed several possible exits which Napoleon disdained to take. Eventually he found another stairway leading down to another basement and here Napoleon risked using the small pocket-torch he carried, evidently searching for something.

What he found after a few moments was an iron utility door, locked with a padlock, but not so rusty that it couldn't be picked. "This'll take us into the steam tunnels," Napoleon said while Illya worked the lock. "One of Theremin's maps shows most of them, and I'm pretty sure there's one that leads back to our garage from somewhere around here. They're nearly all connected, so as long as we keep going in the right direction we shouldn't have any trouble finding our way."

The lock finally surrendered to Illya's pick just then and the door swung open with a rusty groan open to reveal a damp, mildew smelling, pitch black tunnel. Napoleon directed his flashlight down its length, highlighting long rows of long gone cold steam pipes lining the wall. Illya expected to see rats, but then considered that there hadn't been anything for them to eat here in nearly a decade. Not even cockroaches survived here now, which was both comforting and somehow disturbing.

Illya had his own pocket torch, which he turned on before swinging the heavy iron door shut, sealing them in. Certainly no one would be able to follow them here without revealing themselves, but there was little benefit to them other than that. Still, if Napoleon was right about these tunnels taking them back to their base, they would at least have foiled their enemy's plans —whatever they were. It troubled Illya that only one man seemed to have been following them, leaving the others to work some other as yet unknown mischief. They might be safe here for now, but Illya's sense of foreboding did not decrease.

Napoleon's calculations, at least, proved correct. After a few twists and turns and climbing over rusty pipes to enter intersecting tunnels, they found themselves in a long straight tunnel which, according to Napoleon's maps, would lead them back to within a couple of blocks of their garage base. Mildew-covered number plates positioned under various manholes and other exits indicated where they were on the map and they eventually came to the one which should let them out in their neighborhood.

Illya made the best case for being the first to venture forth, though Napoleon remained close behind him at the foot of the ladder. With the utmost caution, Illya raised the manhole cover over his head a few inches and peered out onto the twilit streets. Nothing seemed to be moving and he heard nothing beyond the desolate rustling of windblown leaves and rubbish. He raised the cover further, expanding his field of vision, and still saw nothing troubling, but was able to identify their location. They were, indeed, only a block and a half or so from the row of garages where they'd made their base.

Illya called quietly down to Napoleon that the coast was clear, visually at least, and Napoleon replied that there was nothing showing on the tracker either. He then followed Illya up the ladder, carefully replacing the manhole cover, and they began to make their way back to the garage. Oddly, it was not the tracker that gave warning first, but Illya's nose.

"Wait," he said abruptly, pushing Napoleon back into a doorway. "I smell cigarette smoke." There could be no mistaking the acrid reek of the _Belomorkanals_ , an odor Illya knew far too well from his youth when even he had smoked them. He lifted a moistened finger to gauge the wind direction and disappointingly determined that it was almost certainly carrying the scent from the vicinity of their base.

"Damn," Napoleon said quietly, reading Illya's expression like a book. "Now what?"

"Do you have them on the tracker yet?" Illya asked. Napoleon shook his head. "Then we should proceed forward with caution till we can see how many there are," Illya suggested. Napoleon concurred and they moved out of the doorway, carefully making their way down the narrow street. They had not gone more than a few yards when Napoleon called Illya's attention to the tracker. Four blips had suddenly appeared at the edge of its range and three of them were moving about, though still clustered together.

"Looks like they found our visitors from last night," Napoleon said. "Should have gone with your suggestion to off him, I guess. Sorry I didn't." Now Illya shook his head.

"Your reasoning was sound," he said. "And since they are still all in one place, we may yet have a chance to kill three birds with one stone."

Napoleon could see that Illya had an idea and nodded that he would follow Illya's lead. Illya did indeed have a plan, or at least a sketch of one. First he wanted to have a closer look and he was fairly sure that they would not have taken note of the skylight yet or at least he hoped they hadn't. He led Napoleon to the flank of the first garage, where he boosted Napoleon up to the roof and Napoleon, in turn, pulled Illya up after him. Then, silent as cats, they crept over the five peaks and valleys of the garage roofs, coming to rest in the channel between the fourth garage and theirs. The skylight seemed undisturbed —Illya's piece of plywood still in place over the hole they'd cut in the glass.

Their timing could not have been better as the dusky light made visibility poor for their opponents. They took a moment to listen in on the conversation between the three men below and what they heard told Illya that they'd been waiting here for much of the day and had now grown bored and careless. They'd even lit an oil lamp in the garage and its yellow light spilled out of the open garage door into the alley, where two of them paced, smoking their foul smelling _Belomorkanals_.

Illya sighed and shook his head, seeing a similar look of disdain from Napoleon. Together the two of them crept up to the skylight and peered through the strip of window which was not covered with plywood. Below they could see the open boot of the car and Napoleon's pack leaning against the car, its contents scattered over the garage floor. Now Illya's sketch of an idea began to take full shape and he turned to Napoleon with a question.

"How many of those cufflinks do you have on you?" Illya asked.

"Maybe ten or so. There must still be a dozen or so at least, down in my pack."

Illya nodded. "I've got eight or nine, I think, Two or three would be enough to ignite the others, wouldn't you say?"

"Let's make it four to be sure," Napoleon said, already on board with what Illya had in mind.

Napoleon and Illya each produced two from their various pockets. Each of the cufflinks could be linked together with one or more others to produce a larger explosion. Once all four were connected, Napoleon carefully lifted the plywood an inch or three, just enough for Illya to slip his hand under and toss the armed cufflink charge onto the vicinity of the open pack. Then they made a hasty but silent retreat.

The cufflinks only had a five second delay once armed, so Illya and Napoleon had only made it to the next garage over when the first blast sounded. They could see the flash of light that burst from the skylight and open garage door, where the two men outside were momentarily stunned. They did not move away quickly enough to avoid the second blast from the remaining cufflinks in the backpack.

That explosion blew the piece of plywood on the skylight straight into the air before shattering the remaining glass in the window. The two men out front were hurled violently into the wall opposite the garage and the fate of the poor fellow inside the garage was clear. Instinctively, Napoleon leaned over to shield Illya from various falling and flying debris, but there wasn't much.

Illya kept his eye on the falling sheet of plywood, but it landed somewhere out in the street. A small shower of glass came down around them and after a moment or two the roof of the garage collapsed, sending up a small cloud of brick dust. Then all was silent, save for the occasional faint chink of pieces of falling masonry. Illya and Napoleon remained where they were for another long moment or two, then cautiously moved away from where they had huddled to take a look at what they had wrought.

The collapsed garage now appeared as a hole in the formerly neat row of garages, like a missing tooth. Beyond some last remaining settling in the ruined building, nothing seemed to be moving, including the two bodies lying crumpled on the ground in front of it. Napoleon descended first, easing himself off the roof and into the alley with Illya close behind him. Illya was prepared to finish off the two men who'd been standing outside if necessary, but it was not. They did not even have to approach very closely to see that these two opponents would never move again. They did not bother to look inside the garage.

 _Four down, two to go,_ Illya thought to himself with some satisfaction as they turned away from their former base came and headed out of the alley. Napoleon seemed more or less content with the outcome as well. Any further hunting would have to wait, however, as it was now nearly full dark .

"Looks like we need to find ourselves some new digs for the night," Napoleon said, as though this were a matter of booking a new hotel room. "Do you think we should head back to the steam tunnels?"

The steam tunnels would be dry, relatively warm and probably safe, but Illya was reluctant to return there to spend the night. His own instincts urged him to seek high ground, and this was what he told Napoleon

"I know what you mean," Napoleon replied. "So let's go find ourselves a room with a view."

They ended up settling on a fourth floor stairway landing of a nine-story apartment complex. The landing featured a large window with a door that let out onto a balcony, providing the view, as well as assuring them that no one would be able to approach without being seen. It was also sheltered from the wind and rain, but as the temperature that night dropped below freezing and the window was not insulated, it was cold. They'd made a foray into some of the nearby apartments looking for bedding and had found one thin and relatively clean mattress, plus some couch cushions and a couple of blankets which, when added to the emergency blanket Napoleon brought had with him, made for a comfortably warm nest.

As before, Illya took first watch, but decided that he could keep watch perfectly well bundled up in their blankets sitting next to a sleeping Napoleon. Neither he nor Napoleon had any doubts of his ability to stay awake in spite of the relative comforts. After four hours during which no motion appeared on the tracker nor was there any other sign of disturbance, he dutifully woke Napoleon. Having handed off the tracker and his responsibilities for the night, Illya curled up with his head on Napoleon's lap as he'd done the previous night and dropped off immediately into deep, dreamless sleep.

*^*^*^*


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning, they took stock over breakfast. They'd both grabbed a clutch of C-Ration bars before leaving their camp yesterday morning and had enough to last them through today, or today and tomorrow if they scrimped. Their water supply was more problematic, however, as they'd drunk liberally from Napoleon's canteen yesterday and only a cup or two remained.

"Looks like we'll be making a trip to the well first thing," Napoleon said as they washed down their food bars with carefully rationed sips. "Luckily I've still got a few water purifying tablets here." He patted one of his jacket pockets, "But no more Tang, unfortunately."

"I can't say as I noted the addition of this flavoring as any particular improvement," Illya commented. "I am satisfied to know we can render the water potable at all. I am also happy to recall that we left the bucket at the well."

"That will save us a lot of fuss and bother. The question in my mind, however, concerns the capacity of our canteen. Under normal circumstances it holds just barely enough for the daily consumption of two adults. We'd need to refill it every day… assuming we're planning on being here after today."

Illya nodded. This was the main question which would determine their immediate strategy. "It seems to me," he said, "that now that we have evened the odds, there is no reason to delay here any longer."

"You think we should head for the center?" Napoleon said. "Draw the remaining two out and meet them there?"

"If we can force them into a fair fight on open ground we know we can easily defeat them—and so do they. Our challenge will be avoiding any ambushes or booby traps on the way."

"And there you have hit the nail on the head, partner mine," Napoleon said. "If I was in their shoes I'd have all the major approaches to the town center blocked or trapped, so we're going to have to get creative in planning our route."

Maps laid out on the floor of the stair landing, Illya and Napoleon worked out a route which would take them from the well, to their north and west, further west still, then south-eastward, to circumnavigate the area immediately west of the center, through which their enemies would mainly expect them to travel. It involved a large detour and meant that they would have a long day of walking ahead of them, so they packed up their scant belongings and set out forthwith.

As they skirted the block adjacent to the row of garages they could still detect a faint odor of burnt rubber and masonry dust and knew that the remainder of Reznikov's team would have no difficulty determining the fate of its four missing members. That would only pertain if the remaining team members bothered looking for them, however, and the fact that they had not returned to their own base last night with Illya in tow probably told enough of the tale that there would be no point in their seeking further details. Determining what had gone wrong, in this case, would only waste time.

No, Reznikov's two remaining Tops would be laboring, even now, to secure all approaches to the town center. _Ozyorsk's_ town square was far from being laid out like a fortress, however, and sealing it off from the likes of Illya and Napoleon would not be an easy task. More than likely their opponents would begin with the most obvious approaches and the longer it took the two of them to get there, the more approaches would be closed or trapped.

On the other hand, the more their opponents had to wait, the more uncertain and impatient they might become. That factor had worked to their advantage yesterday, but Illya suspected that the remaining members of Reznikov's team would be less subject to boredom and carelessness. In the end it would come down to something like a race to see whether Illya and Napoleon could get to one of the eastern approaches to the town center before Reznikov's team blocked them all.

It was frustrating, then, to have to go more than a mile out of their way in order to refill their water supply, but inarguably necessary. They took a calculated risk in proceeding with little caution, figuring that their enemies would be too busy elsewhere to bother them here. Illya certainly felt none of the scalp-prickling sense of being watched that he'd experienced yesterday and so they made good time.

They drank off the remainder of the contents of the canteen before refilling it, then hid the bucket once more, though they hoped never to see it again. Then they made one more consultation of the map, confirming their route, and struck out with all due speed for _Ozyorsk's_ town square. They walked briskly, breaking into a jog from time to time when the way seemed clear.

They stopped to consult their maps again every few blocks, which did slow them down, but not as much, Napoleon pointed out, as getting lost would. Certainly, it would be easy to get lost here among the repetitive vistas of grey, unimaginative Soviet architecture. The dull, block-like buildings had become slightly scabrous, as large chunks of their concrete facade had flaked off and now littered the sidewalks in little heaps here and there. Even so, it lent nothing in the way of personality to any of them. Many were ornamented with rusting industrial detritus, such as exposed gas pipelines, sagging power and phone cables with their ranks of shattered and intact insulators, or other less obvious support structures. None of it lifted their surroundings above the level of dismal.

On a sunny day the rust and glass might have contributed a few smudges of color to the scene, but this morning had dawned overcast with the grey clouds hanging low in the sky. Later in the morning the clouds began to unburden themselves, treating Illya and Napoleon to a faint drizzle which they largely ignored. In case of a serious downpour, they each carried a compactly folded emergency rain poncho, but these would only hinder them now. Instead their jackets slowly went from damp to wet to sodden, though the two men remained dry and warm enough beneath them.

Around midday they stopped in a bus shelter to eat another food bar each and check their progress on the map. Illya had been carrying the tracker all morning, though it had shown them nothing at all so far and he handed it off to Napoleon now.

"It seems ungrateful to say that I wish it had a longer range," Illya said, "but I'm afraid I do."

"Actually, 'You'll wish it had a longer range' was more or less what Theremin said when he gave it to me," Napoleon replied with a wry smile. "But I told him we'd be grateful for any advantage."

"And it is true that it has saved us a lot of trouble already," Illya commented, thinking of the attack they'd foiled on their first night. "But we always knew that we would primarily have to rely on our own talents."

"Which are by no means inconsiderable," Napoleon rose and stretched. "Though they will be far more formidable if we can manage to get to the town center before dark. We need to hit the road, partner."

Illya was already standing himself, stretching as Napoleon had done against the rusted bush shelter bench and closing up his jacket. "This street for two more blocks and then a jog right and then left, yes?"

Napoleon confirmed with a nod and the two of them set off again. The clouds had begun to disperse while they rested. Now they could see that the sun had reached its zenith already and was tracking towards the west with dismaying speed. They made good progress through the empty city streets and when they reached the point where the center was due south of their position they began to move in a more southerly direction. By then the shadows were beginning to grow long and in the deepest of them the air was already turning chill. All these things served to prod them to make haste, and so they did.

It was haste, in the end, and the monotony of the long day, that led them to carelessness, just as they were approaching their goal. They were headed west and a little south by the time they'd come within a few blocks of the center, so that their own shadows stretched out tall before them, or skewed off to their left. Their last obstacle soon stood in front of them. It was a massive office complex which covered a three-block expanse without break and stood between them and the center. Going around would be time consuming and almost certainly lead them into a trap, but their maps had revealed an alternative route.

They indicated a passage, and former shopping arcade, passing under the building at ground level. It was a common sort of venue for European cities which Illya was more than familiar with, so he was confident that there would be a clear and open passage from one side of the building to the other. That was, unless the building had become unstable over the last decade. What they'd seen so far in the abandoned city told Illya and Napoleon that this was a distinct possibility, so they approached the passage —appearing as a dark and foreboding maw at the base of yet another dull, blocky office complex— with all caution.

Going through without their pocket torches would not be an option. They both needed to be on the lookout for telltale piles of fallen masonry which might be their only clue that the mass of building above them could be ready to collapse. It was this careful scrutiny which saved them from the tripwires. They spotted the first only a few yards in from the entrance and they traced it to what looked like it might be a hand grenade—decidedly not among the permitted weapons for the challenge. That was not what bothered Illya about it, however.

"This does not make sense," he puzzled. "Tripping this would likely bring the whole building down and kill us both, which is not at all what Reznikov wants."

"Definitely not," Napoleon agreed. "But I'm not so sure this was placed here by Reznikov's team. Have a look at the dust, and the corrosion on the wire here. I think this was the work of some other bunch of players, from a previous challenge, who knows how long ago."

"Well that's an unsettling thought," Illya said, backing carefully away. "Not only are we passing under a possibly unstable building, but it's been rigged with aging, also probably unstable tripwires. I strongly recommend moving as expediently as possible."

Napoleon allowed as how he did not disagree in the least and they continued forward, eyes scanning constantly for more traps, as well as signs of imminent building collapse. They passed another tripwire somewhere in the middle of the passage, stepping over it with exaggerated care, and then Napoleon paused to check the tracker again. Illya understood this urge, as he was starting to get that 'watched' feeling again. His uneasiness urged him forward to where the day-lit opening of the passage beckoned.

All around him were the sad remnants of a formerly thriving community's shopping district: yellowed and curling signs promoting sweets, tobacco products, home appliances and headache cures. Each shop front was now rendered forbidding rather than welcoming by neglect and the passage of time. The darkened openings represented only potential hiding places and the hair at the nape of Illya's neck was starting to rise. There _was_ someone watching them from one of these dark recesses, he was sure of it.

Illya turned back to check on Napoleon's progress and to alert him to his own foreboding feelings, when he saw Napoleon turn suddenly to his right, shining his flashlight into the dark. "You!" he cried suddenly.

Immediately Illya began to run to his Top's side, his eyes never leaving the place where Napoleon stood, torch in one hand, cosh in the other. Then Illya saw him drop suddenly, not in the manner of one struck, but a dodge —but dodging what? Then Illya saw the silvery projectile which flew out of the shadows, caught in the beams of both their flashlights, missing its target and gaving itself away. It was another one of those ball bearings, which Napoleon had dodged once before and which their pursuer, who Napoleon had recognized, most likely as Curly, was now firing from within the shadows at the easy target Napoleon made while holding his flashlight.

More would surely follow and Illya ought to be closer to his Top, to shield him from further easy targeting, but even as these thoughts flashed through his consciousness Illya was still following the path of the shot that had missed Napoleon. It had been fired from a low angle and now sped on past where it should have intercepted its target, to strike the ceiling, knocking loose some of the tiles that still barely clung there. For one long breathless moment nothing in the passage seemed to move save for those falling tiles, all eyes tracking their trajectory… right onto one of the tripwires.

"Run!!" Napoleon commanded immediately from where he crouched, but for a fraction of a second Illya hesitated. Leaving Napoleon's side at this crisis moment seemed terribly wrong, but other instincts overrode this urge. For one thing, his Top's command was unmistakable and for another, Illya had older, far more ingrained instincts concerning live grenades. He bolted, even as he counted the seconds —guessing at five— utill the blast would come.

Illya continued running as his count proved accurate, feeling fragments of masonry pelt him in the back of Napoleon's leather jacket in the wake of the blast, hearing the whole building around and above him groan in its imminent death throes. _Run! Get out!_ he silently begged his partner as he heard the crashing thud of the passage collapsing behind him, even as he knew how unlikely it was that Napoleon would be able to escape. Those critical few yards would make all the difference and if Illya had stayed closer to his Top as he ought… then he'd be suffering the same fate as Napoleon now.

Running as hard as he had ever run in his life, Illya stumbled into daylight almost by surprise. He stopped when he fetched up against a crumbling concrete bench —one of several facing a dismally decrepit fountain at the center of what had once been a small square. Lungs heaving, he turned back to see what he had escaped and saw that the massive building he had just come out from under was still collapsing into its center, horrific cracks appearing and growing in the outer walls before Illya's eyes. A dense plume of dust was being ejected from the passage he had just fled… but nothing living emerged.

A sort of numbness came over Illya then, but not paralysis. He had to go back in, on the smallest chance that Napoleon had survived and needed help. It made no matter whatsoever that reentering that passage was tantamount to suicide. Moistening a bandanna from one of his jacket pockets in the residue of rainwater in the basin of the fountain, Illya tied it over his nose and mouth and turned to enter the dust-laden air near the entrance of the passage. He had not gone more than a few steps, however, before another figure entered the square… and it was not Napoleon.

"And where do you think you're going, submissive?" he asked. Everything became depressingly clear to Illya in that moment. 

The man Napoleon had recognized in the passage must have been 'Curley',who they had not noticed because he had no tracking beacon. This last opponent must have been waiting here, out of the tracker's range. He would be the last survivor of Reznikov's team, and he must be counting himself victorious now for he was still alive while Napoleon Solo was dead. He had placed himself between Illya and the entrance to the passage, making Illya's first choice of actions problematic. His second choice… Illya's heart pounded in his chest as he examined the available options.

On the other side of the square from the passage and his pursuer, Illya noticed another building of seven stories or so, with another rusted fire escape climbing one side. Seven stories, he calculated emotionlessly, would likely be enough. Sparing the last of his would be captors only the briefest glance, Illya pulled the now-unnecessary bandana off his face. He turned away from the ruined building where his Top and partner and love of his life lay buried and turned toward the object that would aid him in his last free act.

"Stop! Come back here!" the man shouted, but Illya was deaf to his cries. He walked quickly and with purpose to stand below the fire escape while the last of Reznikov's men looked on in puzzlement. He would not be puzzled for long, so Illya leapt up to catch hold of the ladder, feeling the sharp powder of rust abrade his hands. The ladder descended most of the way, then jammed, but it was low enough for Illya to pull himself up onto it easily. The man was running now, probably getting an idea of what Illya had in mind.

"Submissive! Illya!" he shouted. "You come down this second! Obey your Top!" It was ridiculous, really, how he seemed to expect Illya to comply merely because a Top commanded it. There was only one Top who could ever command him, and he… would never command him again. Illya climbed on.

"For pity's sake, Kuryakin! What do you think you're doing?" The man really had no clue and Illya would not deign to give him any. He would draw his own conclusions eventually.

That end was drawing near as the top of the fire escape grew closer. The entire structure was groaning with the unaccustomed weight and was patently unsafe, but that was of no concern to Illya now, save that he reach the top before the whole thing came crashing down. Upon achieving the uppermost platform Illya tested the railing. If it simply broke away then he would not have to climb over it, but it seemed relatively sturdy.

His pursuer stood at the base of the fire escape now, not daring to follow Illya up. "Kuryakin! Stop these ridiculous dramatics immediately!" he shouted, and now Illya could hear the traces of fear in the man's voice, though he was trying to sound conciliatory. "It's time to come home to your new Top now. He'll take good care of you. You can have a good life, but he won't be pleased to hear about this behavior. Come down now and I'll say nothing about it."

It would be laughable if Illya weren't contemplating his own death. The death he contemplated looked, at the moment, like the weedy patch of gravel at the base of the fire escape, some eighty plus feet below. Drawing in a steadying breath, Illya swung one leg over the railing.

"Dammit, Kuryakin! Don't be a fool!" He was starting to sound desperate now—so desperate he had actually begun to climb the fire escape—and Illya almost felt sorry for him. Any ambitions his pursuer had for improving his position in Reznikov's eyes would be dashed completely if he failed to return a healthy, living submissive to his Master. But this was no concern of Illya's anymore. He closed his eyes. There was nothing more he needed to see.

"You stupid bastard! You can't possibly think that anyone will believe this pathetic attem…"

Illya's eyes blinked open at the sudden silence. In that silence he heard the ringing plink, clink, clang of a steel ball bearing, pin-balling its way down through the fire escape to the ground. Hands clutching white knuckled on the railing he straddled, Illya swung his gaze up and out and saw… an almost ghostly figure standing just behind the ruined fountain —'wrist rocket' launcher still perched on his arm. He was white with caked masonry dust from head to toe and now began to walk toward the fire escape slowly, as a man in pain, but Illya knew in an instant who it was who walked like that when he was hurting, knew his form and figure like he knew his own hand.

Illya would never be able to remember how he got from the top of that fire escape to the ground. Clear in his memories was his desperate need to descend as quickly and yet carefully as possible, so as not to bring the rickety structure crashing down around him. He had no memory of stepping over or around the still, fallen form of Reznikov's last man, nor of climbing down the last stretch of rusted ladder. He remembered only finding himself at Napoleon's side, then dropping, compelled by some primal instinct, to his knees to abase himself before his Top.

He had done much the same at the hearing when he had been commanded to greet his Top, but that had been a considered move, for all that it had felt utterly right when he did it. What he did now came without any thought or consideration, under the command of a force as fundamental and undeniable as gravity. He laid his cheek against his Top's thigh, heedless of the dust and dirt there, mindful only of how profoundly relieved he was to feel the warmth and solidity of it. There were no words in him, nor would there ever be, for what he felt in that moment.

In the hearing, Napoleon had reached down to touch him with affection, speaking soft, comforting words, but now it seemed that Napoleon had no words either. Instead he fell to his knees as well, wrapping Illya in arms that shook with emotion. Napoleon's embrace was crushing, desperate, and echoed everything that Illya felt himself. He returned Napoleon's gesture so that their heads rested on each others' shoulders, and the two of them knelt there in silence for a long, timeless moment.

They rose together, eventually, pulling each other to their feet, and Illya came to note the nature of his Top's injuries. Illya led them back to the square and carefully sat Napoleon on one of the more intact benches. He tended to his Top then, first removing and wetting his bandana again to wash the dust off his Top's face. Next he opened Napoleon's coat and raised his shirt, seeing the bruising there which he'd suspected he would find, suggesting cracked or broken ribs.

Using first-aid supplies which they'd both secreted in various jacket pockets, he taped Napoleon's ribs and replaced his shirt. Then he moved to address the foot he'd noticed Napoleon favoring, removing the boot and sock to wrap the swollen and purpling ankle, then easing the boot back on when he was done. He worked in silence, demonstrating his devotion with knowing hands and careful touches. Napoleon remained silent as well, save for the occasional small sound or intake of breath when something pained him. He would reach out to touch Illya's face from time to time, caressing a cheek or smoothing his hair, but did not speak.

When Illya had finished securing Napoleon's more serious injuries and washing the dust from his various cuts and scrapes, he lifted himself up to sit beside his Top on the bench, letting his head fall to rest on Napoleon's shoulder. Napoleon took hold of his hand and they sat in this manner for some time as the sun dropped down below the city skyline and the little square became a pool of shadow. The air began to cool as well and Napoleon reached an arm around his sub to pull him in closer.

"I only had the one shot," Napoleon said at last, without preamble. "I knew I couldn't fight him, so I had to make it."

"And you did," Illya answered quietly. "You always make your shot when it matters."

Napoleon nodded and was quiet for another long moment before he spoke again. "It was… terrifying, seeing you up there, ready to jump… but at the same time I was glad." Illya blinked, turning his head to stare at his Top with surprise. "I knew then that I didn't need to worry," Napoleon explained. "If I… if I hadn't made it, I knew then that you would never be forced to live the rest of your life as Reznikov's submissive. You had the strength to see it through… that's what I was glad of."

Illya swallowed, remembering how close he had come to seeing it through. "I am glad that I didn't have to," he said eventually.

"Me, too," Napoleon said with a pained smile. "The crazy thing is that it was 'Curly' who saved my life. I'm sure that wasn't his intention when he pushed me out of his way in his haste to get out of that passage, but when he did he put himself right under that falling beam instead of me." Napoleon shook his head in bemusement. "It cost me four whole seconds to get that wrist rocket off his hand afterwards, and I thought it was a maybe a stupid waste of time, but in the end it saved us both."

"Solo's luck… it remains with you, still," Illya said with a wry smile.

"With me, yes," Napoleon said with a trace of bitterness, "but not necessarily with you. You know they're going to expect me to be hard with you tonight, physical limitations notwithstanding. The Top they saw at that hearing wouldn't let a little thing like cracked ribs stop him from punishing his 'runaway' sub."

Illya nodded, though he had not thought this far into the future yet. "I understand." he said.

"And there's another thing they're going to expect…" Napoleon continued. "Take that bandanna you were washing me with and rinse it out, please."

Not quite sure yet what Napoleon had in mind, Illya did as he was asked. Napoleon took the black bandanna from him then, wrung it as dry as he could, folded it neatly into a narrow band and asked Illya to present his neck. Now Illya knew what Napoleon meant to do.

"I know this probably feels like the real thing right now," Napoleon said as he tied the bandanna in place around Illya's neck. "And in a way it is. There's a part of me that needs to do this and I'm betting that there's a part of you that wants this just as badly, but we both need to remember that this isn't who either of us really is."

Illya nodded, swallowing hard as he felt the makeshift 'collar' on his neck and felt the implication of it deep in his submissive soul. He did want it and could not imagine wanting to be free of it, but at the same time he knew Napoleon was right. Napoleon did not really want him—or anyone—as his collared submissive, and Illya did not really want any Top's collar. At the moment, however, it was hard to keep that in mind, and he said so to Napoleon.

"Believe me," Napoleon said. "I'm feeling exactly the same at the moment, but this isn't really us and it isn't our life. We'll get back to that life soon, and then we'll both remember who we really are. We'll do this carefully every step of the way, though, and I'll never hurt you. You know that."

"I do," Illya said. "I trust you as I always have and that trust has never needed a collar and never will." He took Napoleon's hand and squeezed it and Napoleon bent to kiss him on the lips.

"I am honored by your trust," he said, "with or without a collar. Now," he continued, beginning to stand painfully. "Let's get out of here and get the rest of this farce over with."

Instinctively, Illya helped his Top to his feet and supported him as they made their way across this little square to the larger one beyond, where the guard station lay. Napoleon's arm over his shoulders probably appeared possessive to the guards in the tower who looked down upon them as they arrived, but Illya was actually carrying much of Napoleon's weight. There was truth, however, in the illusion, and illusion in the truth. It was how they managed much in their business and from this Illya understood that all would be well with both of them, in the end.

*^*^*^*

Our heroes ordeal is almost, but not quite, at an end. It continues back in Moscow, in The Theremin's Protege Affair Part III: Reset to Default...


End file.
